caldrail

Every day when I sign on the chap across the desk pulls up a screen full of job vacancies within my chosen criteria. You do tend to get a mixed bag, some of them distinctly undesirable or impossible for various reasons, but by and large the range becomes familiar. Well it should do really, I've been applying for those sort of jobs for a couple of years now. Now that my letter of complaint has been handed in, I must face the music. The Job Centre hate nothing more than a claimant who doesn't shrink from their power. They dredged up every possible onerous, menial, and degrading vacancy they could find. The young claims advisor looked uncomfortable and pointed at the only one that fell within the sphere of warehousing. General Assistant. Yep, that's about as low as you can get in warehousing. Go on, print it off. Let's get this nonsense over and done with. As chance would have it, they forgot to remove the printed list of the latest vacancies, and being the sharp eyed jobseeker I always was, I immediately spotted a somewhat more rewarding vacancy. Woo hoo! "Uhhh..." The advisor winced, "That doesn't seem to have shown up in the computor search." No kidding. Go and print it off. Meanwhile I'll sit here safe in the knowledge that I've another vacancy waiting to apply for by email later. If the government want their representatives to play silly games, I've got better things to do. Like look for a job, maybe? Less Benefits, More Support Our new government have decided in their ultimate wisdom that benefits need to be simplified and more supportive. I wish I could claim credit for having woken them up to the reality of living on welfare, but a - I haven't, and b - They're still snoring. It's a nice idea. Give people enough financial support to make getting a low paid job actually financially worthwhile. The truth is that the government are more interested in paying their own bills than mine. On the one hand, you can't blame them for that. On the other hand, you might might be somewhat dependent on their handouts and believe me this sort of messing around with payments makes me very nervous. No Pain, No Gain Just to underline the seriousness of my jobsearch, I have to point out that not only did I walk a total of twenty miles in connection with my recent job interview, I also have the blisters to show for it. Perhaps that's a good thing. There's probably a government requirement that all jobseekers must suffer at least one a week. It must be said I've had long experience of blisters on my feet. Big ones, small ones, harmless ones, or blisters with enough fluid to keep me alive for three days in desert conditions. You'd think by now I'd figured out how to avoid actually suffering more of them, but no, occaisionally I still get to feel their squidgy presence. As a result of my long trek to the industrial estate on the edge of the known world, I suffered two, at the same time. One was a white harmless one. Easily dealt with and no painful rehabilitation required. The other was a nasty, grey-green, gruesome blister that was causing considerable discomfort on the ball of my left foot. Easily dealt with, but painless? Now that it's a few days on and I'm done cursing very loudly, the nasty blister is healing nicely. Still a little tender but not debilitating. Just as well. I've got a daily signing session to attend and that means walking there. Somehow I doubt they'll be impressed with my tales of woe.

Yes, you could see it that way, but notice he was expecting something ordinary and saw something different. Further, his comment is not disparaging toward whoever was taking part nor does he infer any sense of justice. Also, if Seneca came in and saw executions, why was he expecting entertainment? If that was the case, surely he wouldn't be especially bothered by any bloodiness involved? Since when were Roman public executions swift and painless? They were always conducted in a manner to inspire fear of the consequences of misbehaviour and to demonstrate power. that last attribute is absent from Seneca's quote. In no way was he impressed. Then of course you could see it another way. What if the fights were deliberately bloody? Normally an editor would make a big deal of fights to held to the death with prior advertising and gossip, because that would draw in the crowd. However, Augustus had banned fights sine missione and thus it was likely that Seneca was looking at a fight conducted in an illegal manner. In that case, he would be hoping that the extra blood and aggression would make his games memorable even if he couldn't get away with blowing his own trumpet. If that's the case, then in a way he succeeded.

Oh brilliant. I've got thirty minutes left on my computer slot to type this blog entry in. Everything I do these days is against the clock. Get to my daily signing on time... Fill in the online application before the screen closes to the default page.... Get home in time to see Star Trek.... An endless cycle of deadlines. So, at least you'll be pleased to learn that todays blog entry won't cause the reader much of an obstacle to your schedule. As it happens, it's been a calm and quiet day. Met an old lady walking her greyhound earlier. She lives in the New Forest area, which means she certainly does like to exercise her dog. That said, she is here on business, and I came across her while she took time out from her business meeting to go walkies. Nice lady. We had a great little conversation about things canine. There you go. Short and sweet. You can all go back to whatever you were doing before. Except me, as I still have to find a job thus my routine isn't going to change until the government says so. On my emails I've already had two rejections. Good grief, I only applied for those three hours ago. Looks they have tight deadlines too. Golf can be so demanding. Well that's all I have time for today. I must remember to leave enough time to attend a seminar coming up in the next few weeks. 'How To Find A Job'. And according to the letter I got this morning, they're thrilled I'm coming along. As if I was given the choice. Oh well. Must rush. I have a diary to fill in.

7 - "No connection. I knew these things were a stupid barbarian idea. Break out the signal flags lads, and get someone up on that hill" 8 - "Umm?.. Oh, it's tablet game... Total Anhilation:Rome. Can't seem to get past the fourth level..." 9 - "You know, if Spartacus sends me one more text, I swear I'll crucify him when I catch him"

4 - "Oh for Hades sake! It's been two thousand years and Apple still haven't sorted out the bugs" 5 - "Bad news Cassius. We've lost three nil to the Germans." 6 - "It's from Augustus. Have you seen any eagles?"

Parrot? In a sense, Med, but then how many of us are finding original remains and sources? We're all acting as parrots to some degree, because we have to rely on data collated by others. Also bear in mind that whilst I'm accepting the results of archaeological digs at York and Ephesus at face value, I'm also prepared to accept findings that differ from the possible explanations given so far. However, that doesn't change my stance for the moment. I thought about it that far at least, and tried to enlarge on a possible explanation that is consistent with the published findings. Now, as for thinking, since you kindly asked me to, I shall. We've already had a debate on the nature of theatre in connection with gladiatorial combat. Seneca provides us with a quotation that at first glance appears to confirm that. I don't have the correct wording, but he says something along the lines of "I stopped off at the arena hoping to see some entertainment, but it was sheer murder out there". You know the quote? So why is the meaning in doubt? It depends on how you interpret what Seneca means. Firstly, he expects the same sort of entertainment he usually gets at such events, and as we've agreed, the fights in his day were conducted with some seriousness. To him, that was entertainment. A swordfight. But also a swordfight conducted in a familiar manner. Now he describes the fights he saw that day as 'sheer murder'. Why? He was already accustomed to the reality of fighting and dying in the arena, and indeed, had gone there specifically for that. My own consideration (and since this isn't something I've seen written anywhere else, it falls within your definition of thought) is that the referee(s) had lost control. The fights had gotten ugly for some reason. Gladiators were pulling tricks and foul moves, largely ignoring the hapless referee. As a result, Seneca witnesses a nasty 'no-holds-barred' fight. Sheer murder out there.

1 - "Sir, I think the greek who sold you that messaging tablet was pulling your leg" 2 - d e a r g o v e r n e r , b r i a n n o t a t i c e c r e a m s t a l l 3 - "Edible codpieces? The emperor wants, the emperor gets..."

Maybe it is. It might also be that however enthusiastic you are about documenting your adventures in text and imagery, or even how interesting it actually is compared to other peoples, it often depends on your presence in their imaginations. A celebrity can make a sentence appear everywhere. I can't even get the Job Centre to get my name right.

With such fine weather this morning I left the house earlier and took a few moments to enjoy Queens Park while it's still quiet before heading off to the Job Centre. The fountain in the middle of the lake has been turned off and as much as I hate the infernal thing, seeing a bird resting on the spout made that mischievious side of me want to see it turned on again, if only briefly. The water level is well down. There's now a substantial gravel beach and that's the first time I've seen that happen at Queens Park. So far, however, no jellyfish. The waterfowl of Swindon can sleep safely in their nests for now. Job Offer "Looking for a job, mate?" Came the urgent enquiry from a burly and suntanned chap as I passed him just down the road from the Job Centre. I don't usually receive offers of employment in this fashion and my alarm bells were ringing. Yes, as it happens, I am. "Building work?" I'm not a builder, sorry. I began to continue on my way but he insisted on attempting to persuade me. "Do you drive?" He asked. Yes... I do. "Just need you to drive a tipper. That's all. Cash in hand." Cash in hand? This all sounds well dodgy and being unemployed, earning money cash in hand, even if I admit to it and declare my earnings, brings me into a shadowy realm of benefit investigation. Never mind it smacks of television sit-coms. I could see myself driving a three wheeled yellow truck. Erm.... No. Thank you, but no. Crusing I've just seen an american 1930's/40's car warbling past, a two seat coup in glorious reddish-brown primer, whitewall tires, and looking suprisingly sprightly as it made swift progress through the road junction. A definite rarity to our shores. By now it probably has an engine and suspension transplant, which would account for the very sorted feel it gave off, and no doubt will sport a glossy paint job in the near future. That makes two old yank cars in our area that I know of. There's an odd looking four door that gets paraded at fetes and so forth, in a sort of gold colour with chrome strips running back from the radiator grill. Haven't the slightest idea what it is, but is genuinely well looked after. Oh yes. There's a fifties pickup truck in rusty blue that I've seen around as well. Looks like the tax on new car sales is finally starting to have an effect. Shock Update For those unable to cope with the uncertainty of Gordon Browns new book release, relax, I have the answer. His bestseller novel on 'global financial disasters and how to avoid them' arrives on the shelves in November. Gripping stuff. Can't wait for that. I wonder who'll play the leading role when the film gets made in a couple of years time? Tell Leonardo De Caprio to start practising a slightly scottish accent now.

Today was my job interview. I'd like to say it was yet another one, but I don't get much response from employers these days. So I'll confess and tell you this was my second job interview this year. Maybe the economy is picking up after all. Normally I'd relate a few witty anecdotes about todays litle expedition to some far flung part of Swindon. Unfortunately it was one of the dullest experiences I've had in the workplace ever, not to mention a long walk away. It was an odd experience passing an 19th century milestone on a residential street telling me I'd just covered three miles from home. Somewhat worse was the humid weather. Now here in Britain we don't usually get days like those in the deep south of other nations. For us, wet and windy with occaisional showers is what we're used to. Just of late we've al been sweating like pigs - apart the young man who walked past me yesterday dressed in a heavy black leather jacket without a hint of perspiration. He cannot be human. It comes as a shock to discover how fashion-aware androids are becoming these days. the security guard at the library was standing there trying to look official and important with his forehead covered in droplets. I made a witty request that he should turn the air conditioning on. Apparently it was on, and I've learned that security men have no known sense of humour. Eventually, dehydrated and panting for breath, I arrived at the industrial park on the edge of the known world. The workplace I was looking for is a secure warehouse. From the outside, thee's nothing to see, no movement, no activity. The gate opens remotely by pressing a buzzer. All it needed was a dark sky with lightning and thunder. Maybe a few bats flying around. Or maybe a lorry driven at breakneck speed by a wild-eyed maniac whipping the dashboard to urge the diesel engine to greater revs. Through the door marked "Reception" and I enter a narrow cobwebbed hallway. No-one around.... The visitors book shows the last gentleman logged in and never left. Hello?... Anyone here?.... Commercial Break Time to fade to black at the moment of maximum suspense and go to commercials. Don't worry, we'll be right back after these important messages. Important Messages Be careful if you're heading down to the beach. Apparently jellyfish are trying to conquer England. So far they haven't been able to cope with being out of water but remain dangerous when beached on the sand. It wouldn't suprise me if the next time I'm waiting at the Job Centre a cheerful lady will pop her head around the corner and ask "Mister J Fish? Is there a Mister Fish here please?" Only a matter of time in our politically correct nation. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pop down to the Job Centre armed with a letter of complaint. 'Mister Lord' my butt. They're not getting away with it. And Now, The Concluding Part... On the way home I was walking back along the old canal path. Ahead of me was a woman exercising her dog. I've long since come to accept that I'm a dog magnet. Like that dog at Lawns yesterday, that approached me in the most peculiarly servile fashion hoping to grab some friendly attention. No problem. I don't resent animals looking to make friends. This one was a little terrier. It spotted me from some distance and you could almost see it plotting at which point it would make a mad dash for attention. Which it promptly did. Oh well. Never mind. Hello little dog, yes, I'm pleased to meet you too. "Oh, look who it is." The owner said. Huh? I looked up and took a moment to recognise a woman I used to work with many many mooons ago. She was always a little dodgy. Friendly one minute, stabbing you in the back the next. So far she was being friendly so I'll encourage that. She made a fair stab at chatting about old times. Truth was I wasn't all that interested in talking to her, but I answered politely. "She's only young," SF carried on, talking about her dog "She laps up all the exercise. I'm losing weight now after all those cigarettes over the years." That dog will wear you out, I responded. SF chuckled, but I think she failed to realise exactly what I meant.

Funny that. It's almost as if they're merely being polite. Either that or we kid ourselves how interesting our photographs are. There was a time when I was working for a japanese company. There was literally nothing to do all day but sit twiddling our thumbs. Out of sheer boredom I brought along a cd full of my local scenery snapshots, and out of boredom, my two team members went through them, jpeg by jpeg. Perhaps that was why they stabbed me in the back and got me fired If they didn't like the photos, they only had to say.... As much as we value our own work, I think we have to face the inevitable reality that not everyone else will see the value of it. I learned that lesson in the music business many years ago. Every band in the world think they're brilliant. But out of all the billions of human beings in the worlds population, how many are truly regarded as gifted and listened to by the rest of us?

In answer to criticism of points raised earlier - I'm relying on the opinions put forward by people better qualified than me, since I have no personal experience of forensic archaeology. Wide feet suggest someone who has spent most of their time bare foot - it's a known characteristic in human beings. Also, not all gladiators were taught to fight with either hand - that's myth. Otherwise, why would Commodus have been so proud of fighting in the left handed style, mentioned as being very rare? Large size might point to a diet of barley which has this effect on growth patterns. It doesn't necessarily indicate foreign extraction, although many of the remains at York did come from eastern europe (their data, not mine).

Forensic examination of the finds shows evidence of gladiatorial lifestyles. Healed injuries, wide feet, large size, unequal arm length, and so forth. I also understand that similar evidence of a hammer coup de gras has been found at Ephesus, Turkey. Further, the bodies were buried with care which is inconsistent with treatment of criminals. One had substantial grave goods. Since York was a major Roman station, it does seem odd that some sort of permanent amphitheatre wasn't present, even at that far flung part of the empire. Such places weren't particularly big in Roman Britain. The one in Cirencester, one of the largest towns of that period, is quite modest. The amphitheatre in Londinium was discovered by accident only recently, so there's hope for York yet.

What does a photograph mean? On the face of it, probably not much, as it is after all a static recording of light received by a chemical or electronic process at that given moment. Sometimes it can convey information, or perhaps preserve a happy memory. You could say a photograph has whatever significance you place upon it. Some people have a gift for photography. They manage to capture more than a smple recording of light. They capture movement, frozen for that instant, or a scene that invokes a mood. My own efforts at taking photos aren't really intended for public consumption which is probably just as well considering how dull they usually are. Perhaps it's just as well that I don't indulge in the worst excesses of the amateur photographer - the family album. In actual fact, I've been very lucky in the past. So far I've only been caught twice with a family album to look through. Once by a young lady who was desperate to keep me there until she plucked up the courage to... Well.. You know.... The second time by the mother of a friend of mine who was, I think, feeling a bit lonely and just needed someone to talk to. Other than that I've gotten away with it. Yesterday I got ambushed with some wedding photos of our relations out in New Zealand. The photo of the newly weds was pushed under my nose with particular care. I knew the groom. I'd met him as a troubled teenager and once gave him a swift ride in a sports car around Swindon in an effort to stop him freaking out at what was an extraordinarily dull family meet. He even tried to get me to do the same in New Zealand in a hire car and that after he'd narrowly escaped prosecution for wrapping his own vehicle around a tree on a rain soaked curve. The woman he was marrying was a very pretty young blonde, who I've never met, and I haven't a clue who she is. But at that stage of the proceedings, I realised what this close encounter of the family album kind was about. My mother is at it again. Scheming.... Plotting.... If you haven't guessed already, she wants to play happy families. She tries this on a regular basis. It isn't that I wouldn't become a family man if the right circumstances came about, but it's the circumstances happening in front of me I don't like. The emotional manipulation annoys me most of all. Why can't she just ask me? Why can't she just accept things are they way they are? The answer is that she prefers to pull strings. It makes her feel clever. A part of me thinks that she wants me married off not for my benefit, but so she can play the grannie to her own friends. The other part of me thinks it's all about making me conform to her very own fantasy of what I should be. Somewhere in all of this I'm just a means to an end. Nice try, but wedding photos aren't as effective as magic wands. Magic Books Talking of magic wands, I see Gordon Brown is writing a book about the global financial crisis and what lessons we can learn from it. Maybe it's just me, but I thought we'd already cottoned on how to solve that. Not that I'm particularly bothered. I won't be reading it. His brand of magic is a little bit of a con-trick in my experience. In any case, when the news reporter asked when his book was coming out, he answered that he didn't know. I sense an global publishing crisis on the horizon.

I apologise to the Senate for my clumsiness in spelling. Rest assured the slave responsible will be flogged and the mistake will not occur again.

The earliest partial reference is by Gildas in the mid 6th century, though in fairness he doesn't refer to the man directly and thus De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae ("On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain") remains a vague clue to the origin of this myth.

I've already agreed the point about professional bouts. I would point out however that was not unformily the case. In the earlier half of gladiatorial history things were pretty much as you describe them. During the later half of the pax romana we see trend toward 'entertainment' fights. Although staged in the same way, the weapons are more fanciful or designed to inflict wounds rather that killing strokes and thrusts. Whereas before the skill and agression element was paramouint, and so a quick clean kill in combat desirable for honourable conduct, in the latter half the idea is to dramatise the combat. Instead of a sword thrust past a mans defenses ending the fight rather quickly, now it was a slogging match, where two men wore each other down, the drama emerging in whether either of the fighters can carry on and deliver that winning blow, rather like watching two apparently exhausted wrestlers on television today. As much as gladiators were supposed to be highly skilled fighters, the truth is that not all were. It took time and experience to reach a peak of effectiveness and not all fighters were talented enough to reach the pinnacle of the sport. Suetonius for instance relates an anecdote of Caligula being hugely disappointed at the lacklustre performance of gladiators fighting before him. And also, we must remember that the fact fallen gladiators had their throats cut afterward to ensure death was something of a sign that professional fighters weren't always as honourable as the mythos suggests. Also, since the gladiators were trained to fight in a manner that could be described as 'crowd-pleasing', the inference that theatre took no part in it is hard to justify. Why else were gladiators given stage names describing them as fierce animals, mythic heroes, or in some cases, poofs? Why else is the name 'Spartacus' daubed on an archway in Pompeii? the original rebel of republican times almost certainly never fought there. In the end, it was entertainment that eroded the professional aspect of gladiatorial combat by the late empire and I suspect one reason why it lost popularity.

Another day, another job vacancy. That seems to be the ritual I've been forced to observe. Every day they swivel the monitor so I can read the multicoloured gobbledegook that lists the latest jobs available. It makes depressing reading. So many of them simply mention that the job conforms to the National Minimum Wage, or that the wages are 'competitive'. I've even seen executive vacancies that would earn a business high-flyer a huge sum of

Your point about compensation is well made, but mine was that since the hypothetical fight had reached that point anyway, and that a good review from the public might be worth paying off the dying gladiators owner, and that the actual method of dispatching him isn't all that important aside from observing tradition - he was after all the loser of a fight, and the most important thing right then and there was how he faced his potential death - then extracting more reaction from the audience via an extended piece of drama associated with the act of death or mercy is a useful asset for the editor concerned. Also, it should be borne in mind that Romans did sometimes risk debt to achieve their ends. In a somewhat different sphere is the anecdote of one roman who bankrupted himself holding lavish dinners to impress his peers and ultimately committed suicide. In the political sphere, the games were risky. In order to entertain your audience, you might be obliged to condemn a man to death even if you can't afford the price. The alternative is to defy the mood of the audience - and that's contrary to the entire rationale of holding the games to begin with. As regards Charon and his hammer - we already know it was connected with gladiators to some degree because the archaeological evidence of that particular graveyard demonstrates the use of the weapon. That doesn't mean I'm right - I'm only suggesting an alternative explanation.

It's saturday morning. I write that just in case anyone reading this blog was unaware of that fact. No, let's be honest, I'm writing that because nothing is happening in Swindon right now. Some of you might argue that's always the case. Shame on you! We have a Pride of Swindon celebration coming up over the next few weeks. Even the park around the corner from me has staged a conga dance. Oh what fun they must have had. Rarely has Swindon been so ready to let its hair down and party on dude. Mostly we just get drunk and annoy everyone else at high volume. That must explain why the library is so quiet. No-one is chatting into a mobile phone, no-one is drumming on the tables, and the librarian, a formidable lady of mature age, is so bored she's gone elsewhere. I think everyone must be suffering from hangovers, or at least that's my theory. Dinner What else can I think of to write on this most boring of all days? I know - What am I having for lunch? Luckily my dinner today isn't boring at all, and since I'm fed up with pot noodles, I've splashed out a few quid on something edible instead. Rice and pasta with green peppers, mushrooms, mixed beans in chilli sauce, with fried chicken. I can tell you're jealous. Passing By An aeroplane flew overhead while I was walking in Lawns yesterday. Not the stuff of national headlines perhaps, but it happened. There it goes... Droning away into the distance... Now I've run out of things to write about. Come on Swindon, do something!

yes, I agree, that was the standard practice. But we know there were local variations to the rules at times, mostly in provincial arenas. Bear in mind this documentary was desribing finds from one arena in Roman Britain. They wouldn't have had all the stage equipment like you might see at the Colosseumk at Rome, thus to add to the theatre of a performance, they needed to find other ways. Now whilst one on one professional bouts were a matter of some seriousness (obviously, but also for the crowd) I want to suggest a possibility. Perhaps the fight was dull. Or perhaps something had been prearranged. But imagine that at one particular show a gladiator is wounded and cannot continue. The winner stands above him, sword at the ready, awaiting the editors decision to despatch or spare the loser. But instead of that expected signal, and to the suprise of the audience, the doors to the arena open. A dark figure walks in - and a paid voice cries out "Look! It's Charon! God of the Underworld!" So my hypothetical diversion is a piece of drama. The winning gladiator is pushed away by the referee to make way for the supernatural visitor, who approaches the loser remorselessly. Will the fallen fighter beg for his life, or meet his end stoically? In fact, the decision would still be the editors, but it would appear to the crowd that the god of the underworld had decided whether this man would live or die. This would still fit the facts I believe? Also, since the shock value would ebb after a few appearances, Charon would have been a fashionable theatrical part of the event for a while and then fall into disuse.

Oh, MPC, what a cynic you are! But I agree as it happens, although describing him as 'all bad' sort of paints a complex character in one colour.

Round Table? Like the supposed 'Holy Grail', the Round Table is not a historical artifact. It was a fictional invention written into medieval arthurian romances. That doesn't mean that a real Arthur didn't hold meetings in an old roman amphitheatre at any time, but rather that this cute theory holds no water and is merely an attempt to give Chester some importance in regrad to the Arthurian mythos.

He also failed utterly to survive Adrianople if I remember right, and it was Sebastianus who was pressing Valens to fight that engagement ahead of the arrival of Gratians reinforcements. Right from the start, Sebastianus was motivated primarily toward his career. So much so that Valens was getting a little fed up of him despite the succeses he achieved, and Seb knew it, thus he gambled on the basis of flawed intelligence that the battle could be won without Gratian. Bear in mind, it's our Roman sources that praise his efforts in that campaign. Even the scathing Zosimus doesn't criticise him overly. Sebastianus had been chosen by Valens to lead his armies because he'd gained a reputation as a capable commander, though you have to concede he did so because of the lacklustre performance of his existing senior officers, a state of affairs that was confirmed by the events leading to the defeat at Adrianople. PS - Quick check - There are mentions of a Sebastianus dying in 413. He'd been captured by Visigoths and his head was returned to Honorius. But I don't think this was the same guy. Marcellinus tells us our capable general died at Adrianople.

The next few months are going to be some of the most seminal you've experienced. This coincides with a further unfolding of a new you. Some old ways, attitudes and elements of your life may be set to go. This can be stressful, but also crucial. That was my stars for yesterday in the local paper. Who am I to argue with a journalist? You know, this 'stars' business is peculiar. Intellectually you know that you're being conned a little bit. You know that paying any money to find deeper answers to the worries, insecurities, hopes, and dreams that made you read the stupid thing in the first place is a pointless exercise. How could any generic prediction of the future be accurate for an individual? it's a strange thing to realise that one-twelth of the worlds population are just like me, suffering the same problems with rising prices and officious claims advisors. But of course they aren't, that's simply me, my own little world, and in the generic text I spot those lines that offer some hope of relief. Just like everyone else. But wait a moment. My life is changing, slowly, but with subtle significance. Why? Bottom Shelf? The cost of food is getting ridiculous. Wandering up and down the aisles of the supermarket is becoming an exercise of scavenging for cut price deals. Sooner or later I'm going to have a life or death struggle with some old lady for a packet of last weeks mince. Even pot noodles are beginning to assume culinary status and now cost twice what they did a few years ago. I can't even afford those anymore. The slightly cheaper ones are horrendous. Which leaves me with... Oh no... Not the bottom shelf.... Courage, Caldrail. The little white plastic pots containing a pot noodle at a price of several pence stood there in forlorn ranks, forgotten and despised by the population of Swindon. Gritting my teeth I stooped low and took one to the till. I'll give it a try. You never know. And guess what? They're actually better than the ones costing five times as much. Bonus! I'll take five, please. Woo hoo! Now I know the joy of surviving in the wilderness. Or Top Draw? Now that I'm on daily signing I never know quite who will handle the claim. Today a cheerful woman popped her head around the corner and said "Mister Caldrail? Hi. Come with me please." GAAAAAAAAAH! How many times do I have to tell these people? I arrived at her desk in a growing fury over the question of ettiquette, which as regular readers of my journal will know, is a persistent problem for me. I had just started to launch into my trademarked lecture about which title I go by when she apologised and... No... This cannot be happening!... Yes, she has. Are you sitting comfortably? If so, prepare yourself for a shock. For the first time ever in Swindon Job Centre, a claims advisor has called me Lord. Star of the Week I notice with interest that astronomers have discovered a star in another galaxy that is a whopping three hundred times larger and much much hotter than our own, quite possibly the largest stellar object in the universe. Except it won't be for long, because stars that size aren't exactly stable, so the whole thing will explode catastrophically sooner or later. That's a prediction you can count on. But sometimes it isn't the stars that explode. One Emma Amelia Pearl Czikai is suing the makers of 'Britains Got Talent', one of those abysmal television shows were idiots get a chance to keep celebrity judges wealthy, for injured feelings, loss of earnings, and further compensation. In case you haven't noticed Emma, the entertainment industry is indeed inherently exploitative and cruel. If you manage to pursue a career as a performing artist, you'll find the audience are even worse.